by Barbara Bard
Catrin almost gasped at the naked hatred that crossed Gilbert’s face. “Your thanks?” he snarled. “I have your thanks? To hell with your thanks, Duke. I will have Catrin to wife, whether you like it or not. She will be mine.”
Chapter 19
“Wid one ‘o Whitewood’s chums be named Chaddie?” Ranulf asked Aswin. “Dark ‘o hair wi’ a scar oan his cheek?”
“Aye, laird,” Aswin replied, nodding. “Wi’ two others Hardwin and Adalric, and all three be wanted by the crown fer thievery and murder.”
Surprised, Ranulf glanced at Duncan and Ian. “Why wid the son ‘o a Duke be consortin’ wi’ murderers? That dae seem unlikely.”
“It dae be true, laird,” Duncan said. “We heard rumors that Whitewood dae run wi’ unsavory types and gambles heavily at dice.”
“Ach, indeed? That be interestin’. Whet else?”
“After Whitewood be killed, his chums vanished, some say tae Scotland, others say tae Ireland,” Duncan went on. “We think it be true, as we found nae sign of them here.”
“Did ye find the last place Whitewood was at before he died?”
“Aye,” Aswin replied, gesturing down the street. “The Lucky Hog.”
“So, me brother Kyle, Whitewood and the killer had tae be there that night.” His head down, Ranulf paced, thinking hard. “Tae much time may ‘o passed fer anyone tae remember that night, or witnessed who Whitewood argued wi’.”
Aswin nodded. “We asked, laird. All we ken be that all three of Whitewood’s friens’ were wi’ him. No one yet remembers yer brother there.”
“Wi’ enough Scots aroond,” Ranulf agreed, “one more would’nae stand oot.”
“It may help if ye can recall why yer brother be doon in Linfield then,” Duncan said. “Dae ye ken it?”
“Aye,” Ranulf said, glancing down to the mouth of the alley. He thought he saw a face appear briefly, then vanish, but he could not be sure. “He were scoutin’ the land before plannin’ tae raid the Duke’s cattle, learnin’ where the guards be and the like.”
The face appeared again, a rough shaven ruffian with beady black eyes and unkempt brown hair. He stepped fully into view at the street end of the alley with three others, all as disheveled and dirty as he was. They wore, as most brigands, ragged tunics, breeches, and shirts of mail. As they pulled their swords from their sheaths and advanced down the alley, Ranulf and his clansmen did the same.
“We heard of filthy Scots asking questions,” the first man said, poised for a fight. “Questions that ain’t none of your business.”
“So ye think tae fight o’er it, dae ye?” Ranulf asked, stepping forward with his blade leveled. “And ye be prepared tae die noo?”
The leader sneered. “A Scot cannot fight his way out of sheep pen.”
Ranulf hawked and spat at the outlaw’s foot. “Gae piss yerself.”
Yelling, the man charged, swinging his blade at Ranulf’s head. Meeting him head on, Ranulf’s hacked at the other’s sword as his clansmen engaged the outlaws. Without much room to maneuver, the eight men fought in close to one another, often striking out with fists as well as blades. Yanking his dagger from his belt, Ranulf used it to deflect his enemy’s sword strikes, and slashed at the man’s eyes.
The outlaw flinched backward, lowering his weapon a fraction. Ranulf struck out with his sword, but the man recovered faster than he anticipated and blocked the blow. In his turn, he forced Ranulf back with a series of two-handed strikes that Ranulf was hard put to defend himself from.
His back against the wall of the butcher’s shop, he ducked a wild swing that clanged off the brick, shooting sparks. Undercutting with his sword, he slashed his sword across the outlaw’s mail, but failed to injure him. As the other man lunged back, his tunic ripped across his chest, Ranulf caught a rapid glimpse of Aswin, Duncan and Ian each fighting a brigand one on one. Blood coated Aswin’s left arm, but he appeared able to use it.
Pressing his advantage, Ranulf chopped at his opponent’s sword, knocking it aside, pushing forward with both of his blades. Grimacing with effort, the leader defended himself, but sweat poured down his cheeks as he grew more and more desperate. Ranulf calculated he had not fought a determined Scotsman before and had grossly underestimated Ranulf’s ability in close combat.
His weariness apparent, the outlaw’s returning blows met with Ranulf’s steel, always turning the blade aside. Panting with the effort, the man tried a two-handed attack, delivering strike after strike at Ranulf’s head. But by doing so, he left an opening Ranulf took full advantage of. As the brigand raised his sword over his head, Ranulf slammed his dagger home in the man’s vulnerable throat.
Yanking it out on a bright spray of blood, Ranulf kicked the man in the gut, throwing him against the wall. The leader’s sword dropped to the ground with a ringing clang as he fell, his hands desperately trying to quell the flow of blood from his throat. His eyes bulging from his head, he stared at Ranulf, his mouth working.
Leaping to the side to avoid being run down by the two surviving brigands as they fled the alley, Ranulf discovered his clansmen alive and cursing. The fourth outlaw lay dead on the ground, Ian’s sword still in his chest. Ranulf bent and cleaned the gore from his dagger on the dying man’s tunic, then sheathed both his weapons.
“Gae,” he said, panting, to Aswin and Duncan. “Tae the top ‘o that peak. We wi’ join ye. The watch wi’ find these two and we best not be in town when they dae.”
Ian braced his boot on the corpse and pulled his sword free. Cleaning it, he sheathed it as Aswin tied a piece of cloth around his wounded arm. Nodding to Ranulf, they walked casually out of the alley and turned left. Wiping sweat from his brow, Ranulf tidied his clothing as Ian did the same, then waited as long as they dared before also leaving the alley.
Strolling down the street toward the inn, Ranulf glanced unobtrusively around the street for anyone pointing fingers at them. He found none, but two of the village watch men trotted down the dirt lane toward the alley, swords in hands. No doubt, the fight had been reported and the authorities notified. Ranulf watched them pass by without paying the two Scots any heed, then tugged on Ian’s arm.
“Pick up the pace,” he muttered.
Walking faster, Ranulf and Ian reached the inn without anyone shouting behind them, or pointing fingers, and went inside. The common room was now almost filled to capacity, but few paid them any heed as they walked casually to their room. Retrieving their saddlebags, Ranulf checking to make sure his gold still remained, they went out the back to the stable without a hue and cry raised.
Now late afternoon, Ranulf and Ian rode through the thinning street at a quiet walk, passing through the gate they had come in earlier in the day. Within the hour, the gates would close for the night, and none would be allowed in or out until dawn.
“Think ye Aswin and Duncan got oot afore the gates be shut?” Ian asked.
“Hope so,” Ranulf replied, gazing out over the rolling moors, hoping to see two horsemen galloping toward the peak. “There be another gate oan the sooth side, and they may hae gone through that. If nae, we wait fer them.”
“Where we gae when we meet up wi’ them?”
“North o’ the border fer noo,” Ranulf replied, nudging his stallion into a gallop. “I be worried the Sassenach be huntin’ Scots fer the men in the alley.”
“If they be brigands, wid the Sassenach care aboot them?”
Ranulf shrugged. “I dinnae, but I nae take a chance right noo.”
To his relief, Aswin and Duncan arrived at the peak’s summit shortly after dark. Their horses clattered up the incline, Aswin’s face pale and hollow from pain. Ordering two of his clansmen to care for their mounts, Ranulf helped Aswin to sit by a fire.
“Let me hae a look there, lad,” he said, sitting beside him and untying the bloody wrap.
The firelight showed the deep sword cut in Aswin’s upper arm, but it had stopped bleeding. “Yer gonnae need stitches in that,” he said, and glanced at his me
n. “Bring me a needle and gut. And fetch whiskey fer Aswin. This gonnae hurt a bit.”
As several of his clansmen cooked a meal for them all, and set a watch, Ranulf let Aswin drink some whiskey before taking the leather bottle from him and upending it over the wound. As Aswin cursed in agony, Ranulf took his own gulp, and began to sew.
“Ach, lad,” he commented as he stitched. “Ye be gettin’ slow tae let a dirty bandit cut ye.”
“The fiend were clever,” Aswin grunted. “Feinted at me head. But he paid fer it in the end.”
“So, he did.”
After closing the cut with neat stitches, Ranulf bound Aswin’s arm in clean cloth. “That should heal withoot a problem, lad. Noo get some food in ye.”
Rising, Ranulf walked around the pinnacle, gazing down into the darkness. The lamplights in Linfield gleamed like stars in the distance, but he found no other fires that indicated anyone else on the moors. The moon rose in the east, giving plenty of light to see by. After clapping the shoulders of the men selected to stand first watch, he returned to his fire and the tin plate of hot meat and hard cheese with bread awaiting him.
He beckoned to Duncan to sit beside him as they ate. “If Henry ‘o Whitewood’s chums crossed intae Scotland, where might they gae fer refuge?”
Duncan shook his head. “I dinnae, laird. I asked aboot in Linfield, but no one seemed to ken.”
“These lads stick together,” Ranulf mused, chewing his meat. “They be loyal tae each other.”
“I ken a lad who we might ask, laird,” said Donal, seated on a rock at another fire. “He once ran wi’ outlaws till he be married.”
Chapter 20
With no little triumph singing in her veins, Catrin watched as Gilbert of Hargrove stormed angrily from the great hall. Yet, a tendril of fear still niggled in her heart, for the Earl was a power in the kingdom, and not a man she should underestimate. He was very dangerous, she knew, and could still cause her much grief.
Finding her father’s eyes on her, Catrin rested her fingers on his. “I fear we have made an enemy out of Lord Gilbert.”
The Duke sighed, shifting his eyes toward the door Gilbert just departed through. “While we have never been friends, we had been allies at least. I suppose there is little he can do unless he wishes to attack me.”
Catrin sucked in her breath. “Surely he would not?”
“As you have said,” Henry went on, “the man is deranged, and clearly unstable. While I do not expect he would go to such lengths, I will prepare my estates in case he does.”
Henry beckoned to Sir Alban. The knight approached, bowing. “Your Grace?”
“I want watchers posted in the hills between our lands and Hargrove’s. Plan signal fires and runners in case he thinks to attack us and take Catrin by force. Gather as many men at arms into the castle as you can and send messengers to my vassals to bring their men here. Also, send word to my allies that I may have need of their help.”
“I will see to it at once.”
Henry glanced at Catrin as the knight walked away. “I fear this means you must remain inside the castle walls, my daughter. Hargrove knows your habits too well and can kidnap you the way Thorburn did if you continue your daily rides.”
Catrin nodded. “I will obey you in this, Father. But I would like to practice my archery in the bailey.”
Henry smiled at her with affection. “Soldiering is a man’s occupation, but I will admit I am proud of how well you wield a bow. Perhaps I should have Sir Alban appoint a master to teach you swordsmanship. At least some basic skills in that area may protect you in case Hargrove outwits me somehow.”
Catrin’s delighted smile split her face. “I would love to learn, thank you, Father.”
“While I do not think it will be necessary for you defend yourself,” Henry continued, lightly touching her nose with his finger, “I cannot see the future. These are dangerous times, my daughter.”
“As long as Gilbert is in it, yes, I agree.”
“And Thorburn is out there, too, still seeking his revenge, no doubt. I worry less about him trying to recapture you, however, as long as you stay in the castle.”
Catrin licked her lips, suddenly pensive about raising the subject she needed to talk to her father about. “There is something I think you should know.”
“What is that?”
“Ranulf, and I, are not so certain his brother murdered Henry.”
The Duke eyed her, his brows lowered in annoyance. “Of course, Kyle Thorburn killed your brother. And was properly hanged for it.”
“Why, Father?” she asked. “What motive would Kyle have for killing Henry? As far as we know, they did not even know each other.”
“There need be no ulterior motive for a Scot to kill an Englishman,” Henry snapped. “Those bloodthirsty heathens kill for sport, and that is why Thorburn murdered him.”
“After being in Scotland for the last few weeks,” Catrin replied. “I no longer believe that. The Scottish have as much honor in their actions as we English.”
Henry snorted. “Obviously, you were deluded into thinking that. Thorburn kidnapped you – where was his honor then?”
Catrin felt her own temper rising and tried to keep her voice level. “He may have done so, but he treated me as a guest under his roof, not a prisoner.”
“Because if he dared mistreat you,” Henry declared, glaring at her hotly, “he would have ignited a new war between England and Scotland, something neither country needs right now. He almost did by taking you in the first place.”
“He admitted he acted out of anger for his brother’s death,” Catrin replied, unflinching. “His brother was hanged without proof, with the accusation that he killed Henry. You killed Kyle Thorburn, Father, who was probably innocent.”
“He was not innocent, girl,” Henry roared. “He cut your brother’s, my son’s, throat in cold blood. I needed no proof to hang him for the evil wretch he was.”
Catrin stood, fury raging through her. If she did not leave immediately, she knew she would say something she would regret later. “Perhaps you should have found some, Father, before you hanged an innocent man.”
Curtseying coldly, she stormed from the hall as much as Gilbert had done, leaving through the rear entrance. Needing to cool her rage, she climbed the steps to the battlements and leaned over the wall between the crenellations. Above her, the Duke’s banner bearing his family crest snapped in the wind. Gazing north toward Scotland, Catrin longed for Ranulf.
Swiping her hair, blown by the gusts off the moors, from her face, she murmured, “I miss you, Ranulf.”
Without turmoil and anxiety from Black Charlie and Lord Gilbert, she now had her mind and heart free to miss him. Bringing his handsome face and irreverent grin into her memory, she realized for the first time just how much she liked and enjoyed his company. He not only made her laugh, he protected her, and gave her a new insight into herself.
“Am I falling in love with him?”
Perhaps she was, for she longed to gaze into his hazel eyes, hear him say her name, feel his lips on hers. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back to better feel the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, and remembered his kiss. Recalling the way her body responded when his lips met hers, the way it tingled when his tongue gently probed her mouth, she discovered her lower body now felt heavy, a faint throbbing in her loins awakened under her imagination.
“If this is what it feels to fall in love,” she murmured, opening her eyes to gaze out across the moors. “Then I expect I am doing just that.”
***
As much as she might like to, Catrin could not avoid her father forever. She did not return to the hall for their midday meal but did go there for supper. The Duke appeared to have forgotten their morning quarrel, and spoke to her the way he always had, informing her of the happenings in his duchy. As usual, Sir Alban ate with them, but kept his silence until the Duke asked for his reports.
“I have accepted the oaths of allegiance f
rom five new landed knights,” he told Catrin cheerfully. “They had formerly been vassals of the old Duke of Breedmont, but as the king gave them estates that border my own and they no longer wished to serve under the Duke’s son, they came to me. After all, my taxes are far less than Breedmont’s.”
“That is wonderful, Father,” Catrin replied, meaning it. “You will need their help if Lord Gilbert does intend war.”
“Bah.” Henry waved his hand. “He will not attack, for he knows I have the king’s ear. However,” he eyed her with humor, “I will not drop my guard, either. The man just might be foolish enough to try.”
Catrin, famished, ate hugely of the delicious dove pie, carrots cooked in butter and sweet meats, and urged her father to eat more when he only picked at his own. “Come, Father,” she said, cajoling. “You must eat. You are far too thin, and lost weight while I was gone.”
